Title: The Dark Man
Author: Robert E. Howard
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Language: English
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The Dark Man

by

Robert E. Howard

A TURLOGH DUBH O'BRIEN STORY

First published in Weird Tales, December 1931

"For this is the night of the drawing of
swords,
And the painted tower of the heathen hordes
Leans to our hammers, fires and cords,
Leans a little and falls."
— Chesterton

A BITING WIND drifted the snow as it fell. The surf snarled
along the rugged shore and farther out the long leaden combers moaned
ceaselessly. Through the gray dawn that was stealing over the coast of
Connacht a fisherman came trudging, a man rugged as the land that bore him.
His feet were wrapped in rough cured leather; a single garment of deerskin
scantily outlined his body. He wore no other clothing. As he strode stolidly
along the shore, as heedless of the bitter cold as if he were the shaggy
beast he appeared at first glance, he halted. Another man loomed up out of
the veil of falling snow and drifting sea-mist. Turlogh Dubh stood before
him.

This man was nearly a head taller than the stocky fisherman, and he had
the bearing of a fighting man. No single glance would suffice, but any man or
woman whose eyes fell on Turlogh Dubh would look long. Six feet and one inch
he stood, and the first impression of slimness faded on closer inspection. He
was big but trimly molded; a magnificent sweep of shoulder and depth of
chest. Rangy he was, but compact, combining the strength of a bull with the
lithe quickness of a panther. The slightest movement he made showed that
steel-trap coordination that makes the super-fighter. Turlogh
Dubh—Black Turlogh, once of the Clan na O'Brien. And black he was as to
hair, and dark of complexion. From under heavy black brows gleamed eyes of a
hot volcanic blue. And in his clean-shaven face there was something of the
somberness of dark mountains, of the ocean at midnight. Like the fisherman,
he was a part of this fierce land.

On his head he wore a plain vizorless helmet without crest or symbol. From
neck to mid-thigh he was protected by a close-fitting shirt of black chain
mail. The kilt he wore below his armor and which reached to his knees was of
plain drab material. His legs were wrapped with hard leather that might turn
a sword edge, and the shoes on his feet were worn with much traveling.

A broad belt encircled his lean waist, holding a long dirk in a leather
sheath. On his left arm he carried a small round shield of hide-covered wood,
hard as iron, braced and reinforced with steel, and having a short, heavy
spike in the center. An ax hung from his right wrist, and it was to this
feature that the fisherman's eyes wandered. The weapon with its three-foot
handle and graceful lines looked slim and light when the fisherman mentally
compared it to the great axes carried by the Norsemen. Yet scarcely three
years had passed, as the fisherman knew, since such axes as these had
shattered the northern hosts into red defeat and broken the pagan power
forever.

There was individuality about the ax as about its owner. It was not like
any other the fisherman had ever seen. Single-edged it was, with a short
three-edged spike on the back and another on the top of the head. Like the
wielder, it was heavier than it looked. With its slightly curved shaft and
the graceful artistry of the blade, it looked like the weapon of an
expert—swift, lethal, deadly, cobra-like. The head was of finest Irish
workmanship, which meant, at that day, the finest in the world. The handle,
cut from the head of a century-old oak, specially fire-hardened and braced
with steel, was as unbreakable as an iron bar.

"Who are you?" asked the fisherman, with the bluntness of the west.

"Who are you to ask?" answered the other.

The fisherman's eyes roved to the single ornament the warrior wore—a heavy golden armlet on his left arm.

"Clean-shaven and close-cropped in the Norman fashion," he muttered. "And
dark—you'd be Black Turlogh, the outlaw of Clan na O'Brien. You range
far; I heard of you last in the Wicklow hills preying off the O'Reillys and
the Oastmen alike."

"A man must eat, outcast or not," growled the Dalcassian.

The fisherman shrugged his shoulders. A masterless man—it was a hard
road. In those days of clans, when a man's own kin cast him out he became a
son of Ishmael with a vengeance. All men's hands were against him. The
fisherman had heard of Turlogh Dubh—a strange, bitter man, a terrible
warrior and a crafty strategist, but one whom sudden bursts of strange
madness made a marked man even in that land and age of madmen.

"It's a bitter day," said the fisherman, apropos of nothing.

Turlogh stared somberly at his tangled beard and wild matted hair. "Have
you a boat?"

The other nodded toward a small sheltered cove where lay snugly anchored a
trim craft built with the skill of a hundred generations of men who had torn
their livelihood from the stubborn sea.

"It scarce looks seaworthy," said Turlogh.

"Seaworthy? You who were born and bred on the western coast should know
better. I've sailed her alone to Drumcliff Bay and back, and all the devils
in the wind ripping at her."

"You can't take fish in such a sea."

"Do ye think it's only you chiefs that take sport in risking your hides?
By the saints, I've sailed to Ballinskellings in a storm—and back too—just for the fun of the thing."

"Good enough," said Turlogh. "I'll take your boat."

"Ye'll take the devil! What kind of talk is this? If you want to leave
Erin, go to Dublin and take the ship with your Dane friends."

A black scowl made Turlogh's face a mask of menace. "Men have died for
less than that."

"Did you not intrigue with the Danes? And is that not why your clan drove
you out to starve in the heather?"

"The jealousy of a cousin and the spite of a woman," growled Turlogh.
"Lies—all lies. But enough. Have you seen a long serpent beating up
from the south in the last few days?"

"Aye—three days ago we sighted a dragon-beaked galley before the
scud. But she didn't put in—faith, the pirates get naught from the
western fishers but hard blows."

"That would be Thorfel the Fair," muttered Turlogh, swaying his ax by its
wrist-strap. "I knew it."

"There has been a ship-harrying in the south?"

"A band of reavers fell by night on the castle on Kilbaha. There was a
sword-quenching—and the pirates took Moira, daughter of Murtagh, a
chief of the Dalcassians."

"I've heard of her," muttered the fisherman. "There'll be a wetting of
swords in the south—a red sea-plowing, eh, my black jewel?"

"Her brother Dermod lies helpless from a sword-cut in the foot. The lands
of her clan are harried by the MacMurroughs in the east and the O'Connors
from the north. Not many men can be spared from the defense of the tribe,
even to seek for Moira—the clan is fighting for its life. All Erin is
rocking under the Dalcassian throne since great Brian fell. Even so, Cormac
O'Brien has taken ship to hunt down her ravishers—but he follows the
trail of a wild goose, for it is thought the riders were Danes from
Coningbeg. Well—we outcasts have ways of knowledge—it was
Thorfel the Fair who holds the Isle of Slyne, that the Norse call Helni, in
the Hebrides. There he has taken her—there I follow him. Lend me your
boat."

"You are mad!" cried the fisherman sharply. "What are you saying. From
Connacht to the Hebrides in an open boat? In this weather? I say you are
mad."

"You crawling swine," snarled the outlaw in swift passion, "a princess of
Erin languishes in the grip of a red-bearded reaver of the north and you
haggle like a Saxon."

"Man, I must live!" cried the fisherman as passionately. "Take my boat and
I shall starve! Where can I get another like it? It is the cream of its
kind!"

Turlogh reached for the armlet on his left arm. "I will pay you. Here is a
torc that Brian Boru put on my arm with his own hand before Clontarf. Take
it; it would buy a hundred boats. I have starved with it on my arm, but now
the need is desperate."

But the fisherman shook his head, the strange illogic of the Gael burning
in his eyes. "No! My hut is no place for a torc that King Brian's hands have
touched. Keep it—and take the boat, in the name of the saints, if it
means that much to you."

"You shall have it back when I return," promised Turlogh, "and mayhap a
golden chain that now decks the bull neck of some northern reaver."

The day was sad and leaden. The wind moaned and the everlasting monotone
of the sea was like the sorrow that is born in the heart of man. The
fisherman stood on the rocks and watched the frail craft glide and twist
serpent-like among the rocks until the blast of the open sea smote it and
tossed it like a feather. The wind caught sail and the slim boat leaped and
staggered, then righted herself and raced before the gale, dwindling until it
was but a dancing speck in the eyes of the watcher. And then a flurry of snow
hid it from his sight.

Turlogh realized something of the madness of his pilgrimage. But he was
bred to hardships and peril. Cold and ice and driving sleet that would have
frozen a weaker man, only spurred him to greater efforts. He was as hard and
supple as a wolf. Among a race of men whose hardiness astounded even the
toughest Norsemen, Turlogh Dubh stood out alone. At birth he had been tossed
into a snow-drift to test his right to survive. His childhood and boyhood had
been spent on the mountains, coasts and moors of the west. Until manhood he
had never worn woven cloth upon his body; a wolf-skin had formed the apparel
of this son of a Dalcassian chief. Before his outlawry he could out-tire a
horse, running all day long beside it. He had never wearied at swimming. Now,
since the intrigues of jealous clansmen had driven him into the wastelands
and the life of the wolf, his ruggedness was such as cannot be conceived by a
civilized man.

The snow ceased, the weather cleared, the wind held. Turlogh necessarily
hugged the coastline, avoiding the reefs against which it seemed again and
again he would be dashed. With tiller, sail and oar he worked tirelessly. Not
one man out of a thousand of seafarers could have accomplished it, but
Turlogh did. He needed no sleep; as he steered he ate from the rude
provisions the fisherman had provided him. By the time he sighted Malin Head
the weather had calmed wonderfully. There was still a heavy sea, but the gale
had slackened to a sharp breeze that sent the little boat skipping along.
Days and nights merged into each other; Turlogh drove eastward. Once he put
into shore for fresh water and to snatch a few hours' sleep.

As he steered he thought of the fisherman's last words: "Why should you
risk your life for a clan that's put a price on your head?"

Turlogh shrugged his shoulders. Blood was thicker than water. The mere
fact that his people had booted him out to die like a hunted wolf on the
moors did not alter the fact that they were his people. Little Moira,
daughter of Murtagh na Kilbaha, had nothing to do with it. He remembered
her—he had played with her when he was a boy and she a babe—he
remembered the deep grayness of her eyes and the burnished sheen of her black
hair, the fairness of her skin. Even as a child she had been remarkably
beautiful—why, she was only a child now, for he, Turlogh, was young
and he was many years her senior. Now she was speeding north to become the
unwilling bride of a Norse reaver. Thorfel the Fair—the
Handsome—Turlogh swore by gods that knew not the cross. A red mist
waved across his eyes so that the rolling sea swam crimson all around him. An
Irish girl a captive in a skalli of a Norse pirate—with a vicious
wrench Turlogh turned his bows straight for the open sea. There was a tinge
of madness in his eyes.

It is a long slant from Malin Head to Helni straight out across the
foaming billows, as Turlogh took it. He was aiming for a small island that
lay, with many other small islands, between Mull and the Hebrides. A modern
seaman with charts and compass might have difficulty in finding it. Turlogh
had neither. He sailed by instinct and through knowledge. He knew these seas
as a man knows his house. He had sailed them as a raider and as an avenger,
and once he had sailed them as a captive lashed to the deck of a Danish
dragon ship. And he followed a red trail. Smoke drifting from headlands,
floating pieces of wreckage, charred timbers showed that Thorfel was ravaging
as he went. Turlogh growled in savage satisfaction; he was close behind the
Viking, in spite of the long lead. For Thorfel was burning and pillaging the
shores as he went, and Turlogh's course was like an arrow's.

He was still a long way from Helni when he sighted a small island slightly
off his course. He knew it of old as one uninhabited, but there he could get
fresh water. So he steered for it. The Isle of Swords it was called, no man
knew why. And as he neared the beach he saw a sight which he rightly
interpreted. Two boats were drawn up on the shelving shore. One was a crude
affair, something like the one Turlogh had, but considerably larger. The
other was a long, low craft—undeniably Viking. Both were deserted.
Turlogh listened for the clash of arms, the cry of battle, but silence
reigned. Fishers, he thought, from the Scotch isles; they had been sighted by
some band of rovers on ship or on some other island, and had been pursued in
the long rowboat. But it had been a longer chase than they had anticipated,
he was sure; else they would not have started out in an open boat. But
inflamed with the murder lust, the reavers would have followed their prey
across a hundred miles of rough water, in an open boat, if necessary.

Turlogh drew inshore, tossed over the stone that served for anchor and
leaped upon the beach, ax ready. Then up the shore a short distance he saw a
strange red huddle of forms. A few swift strides brought him face to face
with mystery. Fifteen red-bearded Danes lay in their own gore in a rough
circle. Not one breathed. Within this circle, mingling with the bodies of
their slayers, lay other men, such as Turlogh had never seen. Short of
stature they were, and very dark; their staring dead eyes were the blackest
Turlogh had ever seen. They were scantily armored, and their stiff hands
still gripped broken swords and daggers. Here and there lay arrows that had
shattered on the corselets of Danes, and Turlogh observed with surprize that
many of them were tipped with flint.

"This was a grim fight," he muttered. "Aye, this was a rare sword-quenching.
Who are these people? In all the isles I have never seen their
like before. Seven—is that all? Where are their comrades who helped
them slay these Danes?"

No tracks led away from the bloody spot. Turlogh's brow darkened.

"These were all—seven against fifteen—yet the slayers died
with the slain. What manner of men are these who slay twice their number of
Vikings? They are small men—their armor is mean. Yet—"

Another thought struck him. Why did not the strangers scatter and flee,
hide themselves in the woods? He believed he knew the answer. There, at the
very center of the silent circle, lay a strange thing. A statue it was, of
some dark substance and it was in the form of a man. Some five feet
long—or high—it was, carved in a semblance of life that made
Turlogh start. Half over it lay the corpse of an ancient man, hacked almost
beyond human semblance. One lean arm was locked about the figure; the other
was outstretched, the hand gripping a flint dagger which was sheathed to the
hilt in the breast of a Dane. Turlogh noted the fearful wounds that
disfigured all the dark men. They had been hard to kill—they had fought
until literally hacked to pieces, and dying, they had dealt death to their
slayers. So much Turlogh's eyes showed him. In the dead faces of the dark
strangers was a terrible desperation. He noted how their dead hands were
still locked in the beards of their foes. One lay beneath the body of a huge
Dane, and on this Dane Turlogh could see no wound; until he looked closer and
saw the dark man's teeth were sunk, beast-like, into the bull throat of the
other.

He bent and dragged the figure from among the bodies. The ancient's arm
was locked about it, and he was forced to tear it away with all his strength.
It was as if, even in death, the old one clung to his treasure; for Turlogh
felt that it was for this image that the small dark men had died. They might
have scattered and eluded their foes, but that would have meant giving up
their image. They chose to die beside it. Turlogh shook his head; his hatred
of the Norse, a heritage of wrongs and outrages, was a burning, living thing,
almost an obsession, that at times drove him to the point of insanity. There
was, in his fierce heart, no room for mercy; the sight of these Danes, lying
dead at his feet, filled him with savage satisfaction. Yet he sensed here, in
these silent dead men, a passion stronger than his. Here was some driving
impulse deeper than his hate. Aye—and older. These little men seemed
very ancient to him, not old as individuals are old, but old as a race is
old. Even their corpses exuded an intangible aura of the primeval. And the
image—

The Gael bent and grasped it, to lift it. He expected to encounter great
weight and was astonished. It was no heavier than if it had been made of
light wood. He tapped it, and the sound was solid. At first he thought it was
of iron; then he decided it was of stone, but such stone as he had never
seen; and he felt that no such stone was to be found in the British Isles or
anywhere in the world that he knew. For like the little dead men, it looked
old. It was smooth and free from corrosion, as if carved yesterday,
but for all that, it was a symbol of antiquity, Turlogh knew. It was the
figure of a man who much resembled the small dark men who lay about it. But
it differed subtly. Turlogh felt somehow that this was the image of a man who
had lived long ago, for surely the unknown sculptor had had a living model.
And he had contrived to bring a touch of life into his work. There was the
sweep of the shoulders, the depth of the chest, the powerfully molded arms;
the strength of the features was evident. The firm jaw, the regular nose, the
high forehead, all indicated a powerful intellect, a high courage, an
inflexible will. Surely, thought Turlogh, this man was a king—or a god.
Yet he wore no crown; his only garment was a sort of loincloth, wrought so
cunningly that every wrinkle and fold was carved as in reality.

"This was their god," mused Turlogh, looking about him. "They fled before
the Danes—but died for their god at last. Who are these people? Whence
come they? Whither were they bound?"

He stood, leaning on his ax, and a strange tide rose in his soul. A sense
of mighty abysses of time and space opened before him; of the strange, endless
tides of mankind that drift forever; of the waves of humanity that wax and
wane with the waxing and waning of the sea-tides. Life was a door opening
upon two black, unknown worlds—and how many races of men with their
hopes and fears, their loves and their hates, had passed through that
door—on their pilgrimage from the dark to the dark? Turlogh sighed.
Deep in his soul stirred the mystic sadness of the Gael.

"You were a king once, Dark Man," he said to the silent image. "Mayhap you
were a god and reigned over all the world. Your people passed—as mine
are passing. Surely you were a king of the Flint People, the race whom my
Celtic ancestors destroyed. Well—we have had our day, and we, too, are
passing. These Danes who lie at your feet—they are the conquerors now.
They must have their day—but they too will pass. But you shall go with
me, Dark Man, king, god, or devil though you be. Aye, for it is in my mind
that you will bring me luck, and luck is what I shall need when I sight
Helni, Dark Man."

Turlogh bound the image securely in the bows. Again he set out for his
sea-plowing. Now the skies grew gray and the snow fell in driving lances that
stung and cut. The waves were gray-grained with ice and the winds bellowed
and beat on the open boat. But Turlogh feared not. And his boat rode as it
had never ridden before. Through the roaring gale and the driving snow it
sped, and to the mind of the Dalcassian it seemed that the Dark Man lent him
aid. Surely he had been lost a hundred times without supernatural assistance.
With all his skill at boat-handling he wrought, and it seemed to him that
there was an unseen hand on the tiller, and at the oar; that more than human
skill aided him when he trimmed his sail.

And when all the world was a driving white veil in which even the Gael's
sense of direction was lost, it seemed to him that he was steering in
compliance with a silent voice that spoke in the dim reaches of his
consciousness. Nor was he surprized when, at last, when the snow had ceased
and the clouds had rolled away beneath a cold silvery moon, he saw land loom
up ahead and recognized it as the isle of Helni. More, he knew that just
around a point of land was the bay where Thorfel's dragon ship was moored
when not ranging the seas, and a hundred yards back from the bay lay
Thorfel's skalli. He grinned fiercely. All the skill in the world could not
have brought him to this exact spot—it was pure luck—no, it was
more than luck. Here was the best possible place for him to make an
approach—within half a mile of his foe's hold, yet hidden from sight of
any watchers by this jutting promontory. He glanced at the Dark Man in the
bows—brooding, inscrutable as the sphinx. A strange feeling stole over
the Gael—that all this was his work; that he, Turlogh, was only a pawn
in the game. What was this fetish? What grim secret did those carven eyes
hold? Why did the dark little men fight so terribly for him?

Turlogh ran his boat inshore, into a small creek. A few yards up this he
anchored and stepped out onshore. A last glance at the brooding Dark Man in
the bows, and he turned and went hurriedly up the slope of the promontory,
keeping to cover as much as possible. At the top of the slope he gazed down
on the other side. Less than half a mile away Thorfel's dragon ship lay at
anchor. And there lay Thorfel's skalli, also the long low building of
rough-hewn log emitting the gleams that betokened the roaring fires within.
Shouts of wassail came clearly to the listener through the sharp still air.
He ground his teeth. Wassail! Aye, they were celebrating the ruin and
destruction they had committed—the homes left in smoking
embers—the slain men—the ravished girls. They were lords of the
world, these Vikings—all the southland lay helpless beneath their
swords. The southland folk lived only to furnish them sport—and
slaves—Turlogh shuddered violently and shook as if in a chill. The
blood-sickness was on him like a physical pain, but he fought back the mists
of passion that clouded his brain. He was here, not to fight but to steal
away the girl they had stolen.

He took careful note of the ground, like a general going over the plan of
his campaign. He noted where the trees grew thick close behind the skalli;
that the smaller houses, the storehouses and servants' huts were between the
main building and the bay. A huge fire was blazing down by the shore and a
few carles were roaring and drinking about it, but the fierce cold had driven
most of them into the drinking-hall of the main building.

Turlogh crept down the thickly wooded slope, entering the forest which
swept about in a wide curve away from the shore. He kept to the fringe of its
shadows, approaching the skalli in a rather indirect route, but afraid to
strike out boldly in the open lest he be seen by the watchers that Thorfel
surely had out. Gods, if he only had the warriors of Clare at his back as he
had of old! Then there would be no skulking like a wolf among the trees! His
hand locked like iron on his ax-shaft as he visualized the scene—the
charge, the shouting, the blood-letting, the play of the Dalcassian axes—he sighed. He was a lone outcast; never again would he lead the
swordsmen of his clan to battle.

He dropped suddenly in the snow behind a low shrub and lay still. Men were
approaching from the same direction in which he had come—men who
grumbled loudly and walked heavily. They came into sight—two of them,
huge Norse warriors, their silver-scaled armor flashing in the moonlight.
They were carrying something between them with difficulty and to Turlogh's
amazement he saw it was the Dark Man. His consternation at the realization
that they had found his boat was gulfed in a greater astonishment. These men
were giants; their arms bulged with iron muscles. Yet they were staggering
under what seemed a stupendous weight. In their hands the Dark Man seemed to
weigh hundreds of pounds; yet Turlogh had lifted it as lightly as a feather!
He almost swore in his amazement. Surely these men were drunk. One of them
spoke, and Turlogh's short neck hairs bristled at the sound of the guttural
accents, as a dog will bristle at the sight of a foe.

"Let it down; Thor's death, the thing weighs a ton. Let's rest."

The other grunted a reply, and they began to ease the image to the earth.
Then one of them lost his hold on it; his hand slipped and the Dark Man
crashed heavily into the snow. The first speaker howled.

"It twisted out of my hand!" cried the other. "The thing's alive, I tell
you!"

"Then I'll slay it," snarled the lame Viking, and drawing his sword, he
struck savagely at the prostrate figure. Fire flashed as the blade shivered
into a hundred pieces, and the other Norseman howled as a flying sliver of
steel gashed his cheek.

"The devil's in it!" shouted the other, throwing his hilt away. "I've not
even scratched it! Here, take hold—let's get it into the ale-hall and
let Thorfel deal with it."

"Let it lie," growled the second man, wiping the blood from his face. "I'm
bleeding like a butchered hog. Let's go back and tell Thorfel that there's no
ship stealing on the island. That's what he sent us to the point to see."

"What of the boat where we found this?" snapped the other. "Some Scotch
fisher driven out of his course by the storm and hiding like a rat in the
woods now, I guess. Here, bear a hand; idol or devil, we'll carry this to
Thorfel."

Grunting with the effort, they lifted the image once more and went on
slowly, one groaning and cursing as he limped along, the other shaking his
head from time to time as the blood got into his eyes.

Turlogh rose stealthily and watched them. A touch of chilliness traveled
up and down his spine. Either of these men was as strong as he, yet it was
taxing their powers to the utmost to carry what he had handled easily. He
shook his head and took up his way again.

At last he reached a point in the woods nearest the skalli. Now was the
crucial test. Somehow he must reach that building and hide himself,
unperceived. Clouds were gathering. He waited until one obscured the moon and
in the gloom that followed, ran swiftly and silently across the snow,
crouching. A shadow out of the shadows he seemed. The shouts and songs from
within the long building were deafening. Now he was close to its side,
flattening himself against the rough-hewn logs. Vigilance was most certainly
relaxed now—yet what foe should Thorfel expect, when he was friends
with all northern reavers, and none else could be expected to fare forth on a
night such as this had been?

A shadow among the shadows, Turlogh stole about the house. He noted a side
door and slid cautiously to it. Then he drew back close against the wall.
Someone within was fumbling at the latch. Then a door was flung open and a
big warrior lurched out, slamming the door to behind him. Then he saw
Turlogh. His bearded lips parted, but in that instant the Gael's hands shot
to his throat and locked there like a wolf-trap. The threatened yell died in
a gasp. One hand flew to Turlogh's wrist, the other drew a dagger and stabbed
upward. But already the man was senseless; the dagger rattled feebly against
the outlaw's corselet and dropped into the snow. The Norseman sagged in his
slayer's grasp, his throat literally crushed by that iron grip. Turlogh flung
him contemptuously into the snow and spat on his dead face before he turned
again to the door.

The latch had not fastened within. The door sagged a trifle. Turlogh
peered in and saw an empty room, piled with ale barrels. He entered
noiselessly, shutting the door but not latching it. He thought of hiding his
victim's body, but he did not know how he could do it. He must trust to luck
that no one saw it in the deep snow where it lay. He crossed the room and
found it led into another parallel with the outer wall. This was also a
storeroom, and was empty. From this a doorway, without a door but furnished
with a curtain of skins, let into the main hall, as Turlogh could tell from
the sounds on the other side. He peered out cautiously.

He was looking into the drinking-hall—the great hall which served as
a banquet, council, and living-hall of the master of the skalli. This hall,
with its smoke-blackened rafters, great roaring fireplaces, and heavily laden
boards, was a scene of terrific revelry tonight. Huge warriors with golden
beards and savage eyes sat or lounged on the rude benches, strode about the
hall or sprawled full length on the floor. They drank mightily from foaming
horns and leathern jacks, and gorged themselves on great pieces of rye bread
and huge chunks of meat they cut with their daggers from whole roasted
joints. It was a scene of strange incongruity, for in contrast with these
barbaric men and their rough songs and shouts, the walls were hung with rare
spoils that betokened civilized workmanship. Fine tapestries that Norman
women had worked; richly chased weapons that princes of France and Spain had
wielded; armor and silken garments from Byzantium and the Orient—for
the dragon ships ranged far. With these were placed the spoils of the hunt,
to show the Viking's mastery of beasts as well as men.

The modern man can scarcely conceive of Turlogh O'Brien's feeling toward
these men. To him they were devils—ogres who dwelt in the north only to
descend on the peaceful people of the south. All the world was their prey to
pick and choose, to take and spare as it pleased their barbaric whims. His
brain throbbed and burned as he gazed. As only a Gael can hate, he hated them—their magnificent arrogance, their pride and their power, their
contempt for all other races, their stern, forbidding eyes—above all
else he hated the eyes that looked scorn and menace on the world. The Gaels
were cruel but they had strange moments of sentiment and kindness. There was
no sentiment in the Norse make-up.

The sight of this revelry was like a slap in Black Turlogh's face, and
only one thing was needed to make his madness complete. This was furnished.
At the head of the board sat Thorfel the Fair, young, handsome, arrogant,
flushed with wine and pride. He was handsome, was young Thorfel. In
build he much resembled Turlogh himself, except that he was larger in every
way, but there the resemblance ceased. As Turlogh was exceptionally dark
among a dark people, Thorfel was exceptionally blond among a people
essentially fair. His hair and mustache were like fine-spun gold and his
light gray eyes flashed scintillant lights. By his side—Turlogh's nails
bit into his palms, Moira of the O'Briens seemed greatly out of place among
these huge blond men and strapping yellow-haired women. She was small, almost
frail, and her hair was black with glossy bronze tints. But her skin was fair
as theirs, with a delicate rose tint their most beautiful women could not
boast. Her full lips were white now with fear and she shrank from the clamor
and uproar. Turlogh saw her tremble as Thorfel insolently put his arm about
her. The hall waved redly before Turlogh's eyes and he fought doggedly for
control.

"Thorfel's brother, Osric, to his right," he muttered to himself; "on the
other side Tostig, the Dane, who can cleave an ox in half with that great
sword of his—they say. And there is Halfgar, and Sweyn, and Oswick, and
Athelstane, the Saxon—the one man of a pack of sea-wolves. And
name of the devil—what is this? A priest?"

A priest it was, sitting white and still in the rout, silently counting
his beads, while his eyes wandered pitying toward the slender Irish girl at
the head of the board. Then Turlogh saw something else. On a smaller table to
one side, a table of mahogany whose rich scrollwork showed that it was loot
from the southland, stood the Dark Man. The two crippled Norsemen had brought
it to the hall, after all. The sight of it brought a strange shock to Turlogh
and cooled his seething brain. Only five feet tall? It seemed much larger
now, somehow. It loomed above the revelry, as a god that broods on deep dark
matters beyond the ken of the human insects who howl at his feet. As always
when looking at the Dark Man, Turlogh felt as if a door had suddenly opened
on outer space and the wind that blows among the stars.
Waiting—waiting—for whom? Perhaps the carven eyes of the Dark
Man looked through the skalli walls, across the snowy waste, and over the
promontory. Perhaps those sightless eyes saw the five boats that even now
slid silently with muffled oars, through the calm dark waters. But of this
Turlogh Dubh knew nothing; nothing of the boats or their silent rowers;
small, dark men with inscrutable eyes.

Thorfel's voice cut through the din: "Ho, friends!" They fell silent and
turned as the young sea-king rose to his feet. "Tonight," he thundered, "I am
taking a bride!"

A thunder of applause shook the noisy rafters. Turlogh cursed with sick
fury.

Thorfel caught up the girl with rough gentleness and set her on the
board.

"Is she not a fit bride for a Viking?" he shouted. "True, she's a bit shy,
but that's only natural."

"All Irish are cowards!" shouted Oswick.

"As proved by Clontarf and the scar on your jaw!" rumbled Athelstane,
which gentle thrust made Oswick wince and brought a roar of rough mirth from
the throng.

"'Ware her temper, Thorfel," called a bold-eyed young Juno who sat with
the warriors. "Irish girls have claws like cats."

Thorfel laughed with the confidence of a man used to mastery. "I'll teach
her her lessons with a stout birch switch. But enough. It grows late. Priest,
marry us."

"Daughter," said the priest unsteadily, rising, "these pagan men have
brought me here by violence to perform Christian nuptials in an ungodly
house. Do you marry this man willingly?"

"No! No! Oh God, No!" Moira screamed with a wild despair that brought the
sweat to Turlogh's forehead. "Oh most holy master, save me from this fate!
They tore me from my home—struck down my brother that would have saved
me! This man bore me off as if I were a chattel—a soulless beast!"

"Be silent!" thundered Thorfel, slapping her across the mouth, lightly but
with enough force to bring a trickle of blood from her delicate lips. "By
Thor, you grow independent. I am determined to have a wife, and all the
squeals of a puling little wench will not stop me. Why, you graceless hussy,
am I not wedding you in the Christian manner, simply because of your foolish
superstitions? Take care that I do not dispense with the nuptials, and take
you as slave, not wife!"

"Daughter," quavered the priest, afraid, not for himself, but for her,
"bethink you! This man offers you more than many a man would offer. It is at
least an honorable married state."

"Aye," rumbled Athelstane, "marry him like a good wench and make the best
of it. There's more than one southland woman on the cross benches of the
north."

What can I do? The question tore through Turlogh's brain. There was but
one thing to do—wait—until the ceremony was over and Thorfel had
retired with his bride. Then steal her away as best he could. After that—but he dared not look ahead. He had done and would do his best. What
he did, he of necessity did alone; a masterless man had no friends, even
among masterless men. There was no way to reach Moira to tell her of his
presence. She must go through with the wedding without even the slim hope of
deliverance that knowledge of his presence might have lent. Instinctively,
his eyes flashed to the Dark Man standing somber and aloof from the rout. At
his feet the old quarreled with the new—the pagan with the
Christian—and Turlogh even in that moment felt that the old and new
were alike young to the Dark Man.

Did the carven ears of the Dark Man hear strange prows grating on the
beach, the stroke of a stealthy knife in the night, the gurgle that marks the
severed throat? Those in the skalli heard only their own noise and those who
revelled by the fire outside sang on, unaware of the silent coils of death
closing about them.

"Enough!" shouted Thorfel. "Count your beads and mutter your mummery,
priest! Come here, wench, and marry!" He jerked the girl off the board and
plumped her down on her feet before him. She tore loose from him with flaming
eyes. All the hot Gaelic blood was roused in her.

"You yellow-haired swine!" she cried. "Do you think that a princess of
Clare, with Brian Boru's blood in her veins, would sit at the cross bench of
a barbarian and bear the tow-headed cubs of a northern thief? No—I'll
never marry you!"

"Then I'll take you as a slave!" he roared, snatching at her wrist.

"Nor that way either, swine!" she exclaimed, her fear forgotten in fierce
triumph. With the speed of light she snatched a dagger from his girdle, and
before he could seize her she drove the keen blade under her heart. The
priest cried out as though he had received the wound, and springing forward,
caught her in his arms as she fell.

"The curse of Almighty God on you, Thorfel!" he cried, with a voice that
rang like a clarion, as he bore her to a couch nearby.

Thorfel stood nonplussed. Silence reigned for an instant, and in that
instant Turlogh O'Brien went mad.

"Lamh Laidir Abu!" the war cry of the O'Briens ripped through the
stillness like the scream of a wounded panther, and as men whirled toward the
shriek, the frenzied Gael came through the doorway like the blast of a wind
from Hell. He was in the grip of the Celtic black fury beside which the
berserk rage of the Viking pales. Eyes glaring and a tinge of froth on his
writhing lips, he crashed among the men who sprawled, off guard, in his path.
Those terrible eyes were fixed on Thorfel at the other end of the hall, but
as Turlogh rushed he smote to right and left. His charge was the rush of a
whirlwind that left a litter of dead and dying men in his wake.

Benches crashed to the floor, men yelled, ale flooded from upset casks.
Swift as was the Celt's attack, two men blocked his way with drawn swords
before he could reach Thorfel—Halfgar and Oswick. The scarred-faced
Viking went down with a cleft skull before he could lift his weapon, and
Turlogh, catching Halfgar's blade on his shield, struck again like lightning
and the clean ax sheared through hauberk, ribs and spine.

The hall was in a terrific uproar. Men were seizing weapons and pressing
forward from all sides, and in the midst the lone Gael raged silently and
terribly. Like a wounded tiger was Turlogh Dubh in his madness. His eerie
movement was a blur of speed, an explosion of dynamic force. Scarce had
Halfgar fallen when the Gael leaped across his crumpling form at Thorfel, who
had drawn his sword and stood as if bewildered. But a rush of carles swept
between them. Swords rose and fell and the Dalcassian ax flashed among them
like the play of summer lightning. On either hand and from before and behind
a warrior drove at him. From one side Osric rushed, swinging a two-handed
sword; from the other a house-carle drove in with a spear. Turlogh stooped
beneath the swing of the sword and struck a double blow, forehand and back.
Thorfel's brother dropped, hewed through the knee, and the carle died on his
feet as the back-lash return drove the ax's back-spike through his skull.
Turlogh straightened, dashing his shield into the face of the swordsman who
rushed him from the front. The spike in the center of the shield made a
ghastly ruin of his features; then even as the Gael wheeled cat-like to guard
his rear, he felt the shadow of Death loom over him. From the corner of his
eye he saw the Dane Tostig swinging his great two-handed sword, and jammed
against the table, off balance, he knew that even his superhuman quickness
could not save him. Then the whistling sword struck the Dark Man on the table
and with a clash like thunder, shivered to a thousand blue sparks. Tostig
staggered, dazedly, still holding the useless hilt, and Turlogh thrust as
with a sword; the upper spike of his ax struck the Dane over the eye and
crashed through to the brain.

And even at that instant, the air was filled with a strange singing and
men howled. A huge carle, ax still lifted, pitched forward clumsily against
the Gael, who split his skull before he saw that a flint-pointed arrow
transfixed his throat. The hall seemed full of glancing beams of light that
hummed like bees and carried quick death in their humming. Turlogh risked his
life for a glance toward the great doorway at the other end of the hall.
Through it was pouring a strange horde. Small, dark men they were, with beady
black eyes and immobile faces. They were scantily armored, but they bore
swords, spears, and bows. Now at close range they drove their long black
arrows point-blank and the carles went down in windrows.

Now a red wave of combat swept the skalli hall, a storm of strife that
shattered tables, smashed the benches, tore the hangings and trophies from
the walls, and stained the floors with a red lake. There had been less of the
black strangers than Vikings, but in the surprize of the attack, the first
flight of arrows had evened the odds, and now at hand-grips the strange
warriors showed themselves in no way inferior to their huge foes. Dazed with
surprize and the ale they had drunk, with no time to arm themselves fully,
the Norsemen yet fought back with all the reckless ferocity of their race.
But the primitive fury of the attackers matched their own valor, and at the
head of the hall, where a white-faced priest shielded a dying girl, Black
Turlogh tore and ripped with a frenzy that made valor and fury alike
futile.

And over all towered the Dark Man. To Turlogh's shifting glances, caught
between the flash of sword and ax, it seemed that the image had grown—
expanded—heightened; that it loomed giant-like over the battle; that
its head rose into smoke-filled rafters of the great hall—that it
brooded like a dark cloud of death over these insects who cut each other's
throats at its feet. Turlogh sensed in the lightning sword-play and the
slaughter that this was the proper element for the Dark Man. Violence and
fury were exuded by him. The raw scent of fresh-spilled blood was good to his
nostrils and these yellow-haired corpses that rattled at his feet were as
sacrifices to him.

The storm of battle rocked the mighty hall. The skalli became a shambles
where men slipped in pools of blood, and slipping, died. Heads spun grinning
from slumping shoulders. Barbed spears tore the heart, still beating, from
the gory breast. Brains splashed and clotted the madly driving axes. Daggers
lunged upward, ripping bellies and spilling entrails upon the floor. The
clash and clangor of steel rose deafeningly. No quarter was asked or given. A
wounded Norseman had dragged down one of the dark men, and doggedly strangled
him regardless of the dagger his victim plunged again and again into his
body.

One of the dark men seized a child who ran howling from an inner room, and
dashed its brains out against the wall. Another gripped a Norse woman by her
golden hair and hurling her to her knees, cut her throat, while she spat in
his face. One listening for cries of fear or pleas of mercy would have heard
none; men, women or children, they died slashing and clawing, their last gasp
a sob of fury, or a snarl of quenchless hatred.

And about the table where stood the Dark Man, immovable as a mountain,
washed the red waves of slaughter. Norsemen and tribesmen died at his feet.
How many red infernos of slaughter and madness have your strange carved eyes
gazed upon, Dark Man?

Shoulder to shoulder Sweyn and Thorfel fought. The Saxon Athelstane, his
golden beard a-bristle with the battle-joy, had placed his back against the
wall and a man fell at each sweep of his two-handed ax. Now Turlogh came in
like a wave, avoiding, with a lithe twist of his upper body, the first
ponderous stroke. Now the superiority of the light Irish ax was proved, for
before the Saxon could shift his heavy weapon, the Dalcassian ax lit out like
a striking cobra and Athelstane reeled as the edge bit through the corselet
into the ribs beneath. Another stroke and he crumpled, blood gushing from his
temple.

Now none barred Turlogh's way to Thorfel except Sweyn, and even as the
Gael leaped like a panther toward the slashing pair, one was ahead of him.
The chief of the Dark Men glided like a shadow under the slash of Sweyn's
sword, and his own short blade thrust upward under the mail. Thorfel faced
Turlogh alone. Thorfel was no coward; he even laughed with pure battle-joy as
he thrust, but there was no mirth in Black Turlogh's face, only a frantic
rage that writhed his lips and made his eyes coals of blue fire.

In the first swirl of steel Thorfel's sword broke. The young sea-king
leaped like a tiger at his foe, thrusting with the shards of the blade.
Turlogh laughed fiercely as the jagged remnant gashed his cheek, and at the
same instant he cut Thorfel's left foot from under him. The Norseman fell
with a heavy crash, then struggled to his knees, clawing for his dagger. His
eyes were clouded.

"Make an end, curse you!" he snarled.

Turlogh laughed. "Where is your power and your glory now?" he taunted.
"You who would have for unwilling wife an Irish
princess—you—"

Suddenly his hate strangled him, and with a howl like a maddened panther
he swung his ax in a whistling arc that cleft the Norseman from shoulder to
breastbone. Another stroke severed the head, and with the grisly trophy in
his hand he approached the couch where lay Moira O'Brien. The priest had
lifted her head and held a goblet of wine to her pale lips. Her cloudy gray
eyes rested with slight recognition of Turlogh—but it seemed at last
she knew him and she tried to smile.

"Moira, blood of my heart," said the outlaw heavily, "you die in a strange
land. But the birds in the Culland hills will weep for you, and the heather
will sigh in vain for the tread of your little feet. But you shall not be
forgotten; axes shall drip for you and for you shall galleys crash and walled
cities go up in flames. And that your ghost go not unassuaged into the realms
of Tir-na-n-Oge, behold this token of vengeance!"

And he held forth the dripping head of Thorfel.

"In God's name, my son," said the priest, his voice husky with horror,
"have done—have done. Will you do your ghastly deeds in the very
presence of—see, she is dead. May God in His infinite justice have
mercy on her soul, for though she took her own life, yet she died as she
lived, in innocence and purity."

Turlogh dropped his ax-head to the floor and his head was bowed. All the
fire of his madness had left him and there remained only a dark sadness, a
deep sense of futility and weariness. Over all the hall there was no sound.
No groans of the wounded were raised, for the knives of the little dark men
had been at work, and save their own, there were no wounded. Turlogh sensed
that the survivors had gathered about the statue on the table and now stood
looking at him with inscrutable eyes. The priest mumbled over the body of the
girl, telling his beads. Flames ate at the farther wall of the building, but
none heeded it. Then from among the dead on the floor a huge form heaved up
unsteadily. Athelstane the Saxon, overlooked by the killers, leaned against
the wall and stared about dazedly. Blood flowed from a wound in his ribs and
another in his scalp where Turlogh's ax had struck glancingly.

The Gael walked over to him. "I have no hatred for you, Saxon," said he,
heavily, "but blood calls for blood and you must die."

Athelstane looked at him without an answer. His large gray eyes were
serious, but without fear. He too was a barbarian—more pagan than
Christian; he too realized the rights of the blood-feud. But as Turlogh
raised his ax, the priest sprang between, his thin hands outstretched, his
eyes haggard.

"Have done! In God's name I command you! Almighty Powers, has not enough
blood been shed this fearful night? In the name of the Most High, I claim
this man."

Turlogh dropped his ax. "He is yours; not for your oath or your curse, not
for your creed but for that you too are a man and did your best for
Moira."

A touch on his arm made Turlogh turn. The chief of the strangers stood
regarding him with inscrutable eyes.

"Who are you?" asked the Gael idly. He did not care; he felt only
weariness.

"I am Brogar, chief of the Picts, Friend of the Dark Man."

"Why do you call me that?" asked Turlogh.

"He rode in the bows of your boat and guided you to Helni through wind and
snow. He saved your life when he broke the great sword of the Dane."

Turlogh glanced at the brooding Dark One. It seemed there must be human or
superhuman intelligence behind those strange stone eyes. Was it chance alone
that caused Tostig's sword to strike the image as he swung it in a death
blow?

"What is this thing?" asked the Gael.

"It is the only God we have left," answered the other somberly. "It is the
image of our greatest king, Bran Mak Morn, he who gathered the broken lines
of the Pictish tribes into a single mighty nation, he who drove forth the
Norseman and Briton and shattered the legions of Rome, centuries ago. A
wizard made this statue while the great Morni yet lived and reigned, and when
he died in the last great battle, his spirit entered into it. It is our
god.

"Ages ago we ruled. Before the Dane, before the Gael, before the Briton,
before the Roman, we reigned in the western isles. Our stone circles rose to
the sun. We worked in flint and hides and were happy. Then came the Celts and
drove us into the wilderness. They held the southland. But we throve in the
north and were strong. Rome broke the Britons and came against us. But there
rose among us Bran Mak Morn, of the blood of Brule the Spear-slayer, the
friend of King Kull of Valusia who reigned thousands of years ago before
Atlantis sank. Bran became king of all Caledon. He broke the iron ranks of
Rome and sent the legions cowering south behind their Wall.

"Bran Mak Morn fell in battle; the nation fell apart. Civil wars rocked
it. The Gaels came and reared the kingdom of Dalriadia above the ruins of the
Cruithni. When the Scot Kenneth McAlpine broke the kingdom of Galloway, the
last remnant of the Pictish empire faded like snow on the mountains. Like
wolves we live now among the scattered islands, among the crags of the
highlands and the dim hills of Galloway. We are a fading people. We pass. But
the Dark Man remains—the Dark One, the great king, Bran Mak Morn, whose
ghost dwells forever in the stone likeness of his living self."

As in a dream Turlogh saw an ancient Pict who looked much like the one in
whose dead arms he had found the Dark Man, lift the image from the table. The
old man's arms were thin as withered branches and his skin clung to his skull
like a mummy's, but he handled with ease the image that two strong Vikings
had had trouble in carrying.

As if reading his thoughts, Brogar spoke softly: "Only a friend may with
safety touch the Dark One. We knew you to be a friend, for he rode in your
boat and did you no harm."

"How know you this?"

"The Old One," pointing to the white-bearded ancient, "Gonar, high priest
of the Dark One—the ghost of Bran comes to him in dreams. It was Grok,
the lesser priest and his people who stole the image and took to sea in a
long boat. In dreams Gonar followed; aye, as he slept he sent his spirit with
the ghost of the Morni, and he saw the pursuit by the Danes, the battle and
slaughter on the Isle of Swords. He saw you come and find the Dark One, and
he saw that the ghost of the great king was pleased with you. Woe to the foes
of Mak Morn! But good luck shall fare the friends of him."

Turlogh came to himself as from a trance. The heat of the burning hall was
in his face and the flickering flames lit and shadowed the carven face of the
Dark Man as his worshippers bore him from the building, lending it a strange
life. Was it, in truth, that the spirit of a long-dead king lived in that
cold stone? Bran Mak Morn loved his people with a savage love; he hated their
foes with a terrible hate. Was it possible to breathe into inanimate blind
stone a pulsating love and hate that should outlast the centuries?

Turlogh lifted the still, slight form of the dead girl and bore her out of
the flaming hall. Five long open boats lay at anchor, and scattered about the
embers of the fires the carles had lit, lay the reddened corpses of the
revelers who had died silently.

"How stole ye upon these undiscovered?" asked Turlogh. "And whence came
you in those open boats?"

"The stealth of the panther is theirs who live by stealth," answered the
Pict. "And these were drunken. We followed the path of the Dark One and we
came hither from the Isle of Altar, near the Scottish mainland, from whence
Grok stole the Dark Man."

Turlogh knew no island of that name but he did realize the courage of
these men in daring the seas in boats such as these. He thought of his own
boat and requested Brogar to send some of his men for it. The Pict did so.
While he waited for them to bring it around the point, he watched the priest
bandaging the wounds of the survivors. Silent, immobile, they spoke no word
either of complaint or thanks.

The fisherman's boat came scudding around the point just as the first hint
of sunrise reddened the waters. The Picts were getting into their boats,
lifting in the dead and wounded. Turlogh stepped into his boat and gently
eased his pitiful burden down.

"She shall sleep in her own land," he said somberly. "She shall not lie in
this cold foreign isle. Brogar, whither go you?"

"We take the Dark One back to his isle and his altar," said the Pict.
"Through the mouth of his people he thanks you. The tie of blood is between
us, Gael, and mayhap we shall come to you again in your need, as Bran Mak
Morn, great king of Pictdom, shall come again to his people some day in the
days to come."

"And you, good Jerome? You will come with me?"

The priest shook his head and pointed to Athelstane. The wounded Saxon
reposed on a rude couch made of skins piled on the snow.

"I stay here to attend this man. He is sorely wounded."

Turlogh looked about. The walls of the skalli had crashed into a mass of
glowing embers. Brogar's men had set fire to the storehouses and the long
galley, and the smoke and flame vied luridly with the growing morning
light.

"You will freeze or starve. Come with me."

"I will find sustenance for us both. Persuade me not, my son."

"He is a pagan and a reaver."

"No matter. He is a human—a living creature. I will not leave him to
die."

"So be it."

Turlogh prepared to cast off. The boats of the Picts were already rounding
the point. The rhythmic clacks of their oar-locks came clearly to him. They
looked not back, bending stolidly to their work.

He glanced at the stiff corpses about the beach, at the charred embers of
the skalli and the glowing timbers of the galley. In the glare the priest
seemed unearthly in his thinness and whiteness, like a saint from some old
illuminated manuscript. In his worn pallid face was a more than human
sadness, a greater than human weariness.

"Look!" he cried suddenly, pointing seaward. "The ocean is of blood! See
how it swims red in the rising sun! Oh my people, my people, the blood you
have spilt in anger turns the very seas to scarlet! How can you win
through?"

"I came in the snow and sleet," said Turlogh, not understanding at first.
"I go as I came."

The priest shook his head. "It is more than a mortal sea. Your hands are
red with blood and you follow a red sea-path, yet the fault is not wholly
with you. Almighty God, when will the reign of blood cease?"

Turlogh shook his head. "Not so long as the race lasts."

The morning wind caught and filled his sail. Into the west he raced like a
shadow fleeing the dawn. And so passed Turlogh Dubh O'Brien from the sight of
the priest Jerome, who stood watching, shading his weary brow with his thin
hand, until the boat was a tiny speck far out on the tossing wastes of the
blue ocean.